


But I just Can't Seem To Get You Out of My Head

by imnotashadowclone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, I'll add more tags as i progress, Romance, Zombies, based off of a list given to me by a friend, great deal of things, the first is major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4630497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnotashadowclone/pseuds/imnotashadowclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is basically a list of prompts a friend of mine gave me. Try it?</p>
<p>Ch 1: Fire and Gold (Zombie!AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I just Can't Seem To Get You Out of My Head

It starts with the music.

Low melodies wafting through the air, and he is lost in their beauty.

The notes almost seem real, like something he could touch with his hands; trail his fingers through with gentle caresses.

His eyes are closed, and he breathes in the music, impossibly soulful, impossibly soothing.

The cold bites his skin, seeping into his bones, but he couldn’t care less.

He opens his eyes, watching the falling ashes; like grey snowflakes, fluttering down with a beautiful twirling dance.

Smoke trails from broken rooftops, fire burning defiantly in the shattered windows, growing where no life would.

There’s a twisted, dark beauty to the shattered landscape.

He’s barefooted, and the path is littered with glass and metal, and they cut his feet, but they make him feel so _alive_.

Like the pain is anchoring him to this reality.

His breath clouds before him, white and warm, and he can smell flesh and fire and smoke and blood. It scares him, but his body doesn’t seem to have any reaction to it.

He catches sight of the gramophone ( _who even owned a gramophone?_ ), and he’s struck by the sheer poetry it represents.

All alone in a destroyed home, on a beautifully carved table, the spinning record played on.

He almost _laughs_ at the absurdity.

He’s filthy, his clothes torn to shreds, he’s covered in blood ( _with no idea if it’s his own or someone else’s_ ) and he doesn’t know if any of the people he loves are still alive, but somehow that just seems pointless to wonder about.

 

( _He knows, somewhere in his mind, it’s possibly_ _hysteria setting in_ )

 

The sun’s rays suddenly shine through a dark-grey cloud of smoke and soot and something terrible, streaming down with harsh intensity on his face.

With each blink he sees orange, then red, then black. 

He warms up if only for a minute.

In the corner of his eye, he spots movement.

He turns, facing his entire body towards the movement, tensing his protesting body for immediate flight.

He can tell that it’s a hopeless case though, too many are there.

The empty shells of humans, twist almost grotesquely, this way and that, snarling and snapping at one another, at him.

They are similar to him; clothes ravaged, hanging off of their torn, broken bodies.

But what makes them different are the wounds, gaping and most undeniably fatal to a normal human, adorning most of their chests, heads, more.

And the fact that he has a pulse, beating erratically in his throat, his hands, and they do not.

It almost seems surreal, a dream, _a_ _nightmare_.

He can see the saliva drip from the closer ones mouths.

He was never one to believe in faith ( _he was a man of science; his breed of science had no place for ridiculous, illogical faith_ ) but he feels the fear press against his veins, and the prayers his mother had taught him as a child flood his mind.

 

_Our Father who art in heaven…._

 

He trembles, gentle shaking initially, but they progress to body wrecking tremors, uncontrollable, unforgiving.

Then he sees her.

She’s in the rear of the group, the least filthy of the pack ( _that makes sense, she despised dirt_ ), her movements strangely more controlled, more graceful than her undead peers.

Her progress forward is much more hesitant than the rest.

Something _aches_ inside him.

He can see in in her eyes, still clear, still bright, still her ( _no, he’s just deluding himself_ ), the same hesitancy.

Every forward shuffle is dragging ( _perhaps that was because she had a broken leg, but he couldn’t be sure, she was the one with the degree closer to medicine, she was biochem, and he was engineering-_ ).

Two narratives exist in his mind; the one before him, a pack of zombies moving forward in his general direction, and then the past: her leaning away from him, head thrown back with mirth bubbling from her lips.

 

Hands clawing at him.

 

_Her coy smile as she winks, before leading him into their bedroom by his tie_.

 

Rotting flesh and gleaming teeth.

 

_Her eyes glowing in the half-light that filled their living room in the morning._

 

Groans and snarls from dead lips.

 

_Her fingers twining in his hair, hissing his name in a mix of ecstasy and frustration as he brushes his lips against her collarbone._

 

( _He’s getting a headache, but it seems to be worth it; he’s not afraid anymore, but that just seems strangely worse, so much more horrifying_ )

 

He never takes his eyes from her; he doesn’t think it would be wise to.

\----

_He threads his hands through the strands of hair at the nape of her neck, worrying her lip between his teeth._

  _She huffs a silent moan._

 

_“Marry me.”_

  _She pulls back from him, eyes still half-lidded, panting for breath._

  _Her lips twitch into a smile._

  _Promise me something.”_

  _Anything.”_

  _He presses his lips to the spot below her ear that made her sigh._

\----

He keeps his promise.

 He always does.

\----

_“You’ll stay with me forever?”_

\----

She shuffles into the sun, skin turning alabaster in the light.

\----

_“Always.”_

\----

His breathing slows to shallow puffs.

 He sees her hair, shining in the light; brown turning orange, brown turning red, brown turning bronze ( _like it always did when she was alive_ ).

 Like fire and gold.

  _Always._

 The pain is momentary, but the black that spreads is infinite.

 

  _Always._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed.  
> If any of you have anymore suggestions of word pairs like this; by all means, I would love to hear them.  
> I've been enduring a rather unfortunate bout of writer's block with my other work 'From Eden', also a FitzSimmons work, so I don't think I'll be updating that till a while later.


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